


Agatha Heterodyne and the Solstice Trials of Skifander

by minor_ramblings



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minor_ramblings/pseuds/minor_ramblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was December in Paris, and Agatha was feeling wonderful.  This could only mean something was wrong...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agatha Heterodyne and the Solstice Trials of Skifander

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamjar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamjar/gifts).



The room was open and airy, smelling of the coffee and pain au chocolat being served in the _patisserie_ downstairs. The wind whipped a late December sleet against the window panes, but inside the workshop, and specifically inside the ring cleared for practice and minimally padded accordingly, all was warm and bright and Agatha was feeling wonderful. This was a serious problem.

Since they’d settled in Paris at midsummer (after a series of daring escapes and improbable feats that would take another three tales to tell, and thus we merely allude to them here), Zeetha had concluded that her _zumil_ was in sore need of a refresher course in her training and had settled to it with a gleeful vengeance that had left her even more of a wrung-out rag than her previous introduction to the ways of the Skifandran warrior.

The ‘had’ was where the problem lay, as Agatha in the present tense found herself alarmingly upright and only heavily perspiring as she dodged the incoming sweep of the pole-arm Zeetha had acquired from the taming of the Mechano-Wolf of Vienna (See? Allusion!) and had brought along the rest of the journey as a particularly pointy trophy. The strike from the shaft alone ought to have knocked her six ways from Mechanicsburg on a normal day, and instead she’d dodged it, and not even particularly gracefully at that. She’d learned enough in this particular school of hard knocks to apply a little judicious suspicion to any sense of accomplishment she might be feeling in martial matters. At least when not in the throes of the Madness Place, and really, that _hardly_ applied to hand to hand combat training. Well, not usually. Well… not unless there was a sudden need for a clank. Or an army of clanks. Or one of those fencing clanks that Gil-- All _right_ , in this specific circumstance, the Madness was not likely to be called upon, and in any case, that was not the point.

The point was that Zeetha was off her game, and had been steadily more so over the last few days. Agatha was beginning to feel the tingle along her skin that she normally associated with a large and thrillingly destroyed piece of machinery in need of fixing, and this was a decidedly uncomfortable feeling to be having about a friend, and while she could certainly design an Auto-Analytical Neuro-Chronicler (with Existentialist Uncertainty Parameters! She was sure she had the rough copies of a plan somewhere in her notes.), well.. sparks of a mechanical bent attempting to mix psychology with their improvements historically had poor results. So in the best interests of all present there was really nothing for it but the old fashioned approach: it was time to meddle.

“Good,” Zeetha was saying, the polearm brought up to a resting guard with a grace that was automatic despite whatever it was that was occupying her thoughts. “Now, advance! I want to see at least three forms from the Scroll of Exquisite Pain before--”

“Zeetha -- I yield!”

“What? But we’ve hardly--”

“Zeetha, this is the third time you’ve asked me for three forms, and you haven’t paid attention to a single one when I’ve actually done it.”

“Of course I have! Your stance was good in _Screaming Weasel Queen In Repose_ , but you dropped your shoulder too much on the--” She seemed to flounder for a moment, before she gave up on the ruse with an abrupt huff of breath too sharp to be a sigh. “Perhaps,” she admitted, “My mind was elsewhere. My apologies, my _zumil_ , we can break until tomorrow.”

“Zeetha, I was there when you subdued the mad vintners of Alsace-Lorraine and their entire stock of Wrathful Grapes while your mind was on Airman Higgs’ last message to you. This isn’t just elsewhere… what’s wrong?”

“ _Elsewhere_ is the problem,” Zeetha muttered, shoulders hunching in an un-Zeetha-like fashion.

“... _is_ this about Higgs? Because I’m sure I could find some way to-- I mean, just because he’s with the Wulfenbach forces doesn’t mean I  couldn't build--”

“It’s nothing you can help with, Agatha,” Zeetha interrupted before things could take a turn for the inevitable. “Although I know you would if you could. It’s just been years since I've heard anything more than a rumour about Skifander. I had hoped, with the Baron--”

“Would it help to talk about it?”

“Well,” said Zeetha, as if conducting a threat assessment. “I suppose it can’t _hurt_.”

She strode to the windows, overlooking a stretch of boulevard where lights designed by the Master of Paris burned from their near-perpetual reserves of eldritch fuel. After a time, she spoke. “In Skifander, it’s nearing the time of Zar’tok na Tikree, the solstice trials. It would have been my year to light the sacred flame at the heart of the trial grounds, and to carry it to the place of honour at the champions’ feast. We then face the Trial of Zar’tok na Akj, once we have feasted until bursting, where the champions must fight not just their challengers but the weight of their own bellies. And after that, the dancing, and drinking the solstice wine, and the sages sing songs of our mothers long past until the sun’s rays rise on the new day. I know it sounds silly to outsider ears, but…

“I don’t think it sounds silly at all,” said Agatha loyally.

Zeetha smiled, thin but genuine, and settled on the sandbag near Agatha’s with another huff of breath. “It’s kind of you to say so, but what is silly is that what I miss most of all is the food. Family, friends and all manner of sacred traditions, and what keeps coming back to me is how much I miss the taste of a slice of fresh akjava pie. And the way my people spice things…”

This time, when Zeetha trailed off, lost in wistful memory, Agatha’s expression shared a certain thoughtfulness of her own.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

It was not in the nature of sparks, much less Heterodyne ones, to admit defeat, and Agatha was as much a product of her line as her father before her.

Thus, despite the piles of smoking wreckage surrounding her, and a level of general destruction not seen since her pre-breakthrough days haunting the university, Agatha was not defeated.

“It doesn't matter that my Historical Re-Confabulator can’t find enough source material in the archives to work with! I’ll build a stratocranial resonance chamber and find a way to summon the _collective memory of Skifander_ from the  **very aether surrounding us**!!!” she raved, eyes lit with the terrifying enthusiasm of a Spark who considers such mundanities as the nature of the universe and the integrity of the collective mind to be mere trivialities standing in the way of her plan. “ ** _No secret shall stand before me! Zeetha will have her party_**!”

“Except,” said Krosp, who was perched on the safe zone of her tool box and unimpressed by the tones of the Madness Place as only a cat could be, “For the fact that Skifander is a hidden queendom, and the only one in Paris who knows anything about it is Zeetha. Who you said you weren't going to upset more by asking.” He paused, having spotted an area along one foreleg that wasn't up to his standards, and took some time to groom it while Agatha fulminated. “Unless you’re going to do what I said you should’ve done three inventions ago, and just go talk to her.”

“I,” said Agatha with as much dignity as she could muster in the wake of the rapidly dissipating Madness, “Am going to go for a walk now.”

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Agatha had made her way over and back across three of the Seine bridges, and was no closer to a solution (if feeling rather hungry) when her walk was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a Jägermonster crashing through a window.

She had little time to reflect on the fact that her life had left her capable of identifying such sounds, for the near-human skin and non-human horns made it obvious (beyond the fact that, as far as she knew, it was a choice of one out of three Jägers in Paris) who the Jäger was. “Oggie!” Agatha exclaimed, darting a worried look to the remains of the window, and the opening door beside it that revealed a distinctly feminine silhouette. The figure did not appear to be interested in pursuit, so “What’s going on?” seemed safe enough to take time asking.

“Courtink!” answered Oggie, with a great deal of cheer and only minor (by Jäger standards) bleeding.

“Courting? She just put you through a plate-glass window, Oggie, I hate to say so, but I don’t think it’s going well.”

“No, my lady, ze window is a sign!!” Oggie protested.

“Yes, I can see that,” said Agatha. “There’s a big bit sticking out of your right shoulder. I think it says ‘ _Café Amazone_ ’.”

“No, no, not zhat kind of sign. It is zhe window! Zhey are _expensive_ to replace! Last veek, she use ze door, so I am makink vit ze progress, ja? You see,” he explained, leaning in close and conspiratorial and only dripping slightly on her boots, “I iz being _schmott_ , playing ze _long game_. Soon, she vill do more than throw me out, ve vill haff a proper fight, and zhen ze romance will begin!  But, in ze meantime, I check in on ze odder ladies of Paris.  Ognian's affections vill not be tied down so easily!”

Jäger courtship, it seemed, was as violent as everything else about Jägerkind. Agatha helped him to his feet, and let him settle his hat back in place to his satisfaction, before stepping back to less ear-splitting range as Ognian shouted a happy “I shall see you next week, darlink queen of ze cakes!” to the figure in the doorway and trotted off, shedding romantic notions and shards of glass in his wake.

The dark haired figure framed in the opened doorway relaxed as he went, shoulder dropping and arm lowering the rolling pin she held to waist height-- “Wait,” muttered Agatha. “Legs a shoulder width apart, calves relaxed but toes curled. Breathing steady and supported, nostrils slightly flared… replace the rolling pin with a club… The Screaming Weasel Queen In Repose!” she shouted suddenly. _“I know that stance_!”

The recently combative cook froze, whipped her head around to stare at Agatha, then fled back through the splintered door of what was probably the Café Amazone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Zar’tok na Tikree? I hated it!” said Meera, daughter of Skiff with a wave of her hot chocolate mug, some time later.

Agatha, prepared to storm the metaphorical gates of the café in service to a righteous cause (and a burning case of curiosity) had found her assault abruptly cut short upon finding the woman standing in front of her display case with an expression of tense resignation. And an axe.

One series of comic misunderstandings later, featuring the death of an innocent chair and the related but unpremeditated deployment of Doctor Heraclitus von Hufflington’s’ patented Bellringer Banisher, the two women had come to the following conclusions: One: Agatha was not a Skifandran in disguise. Two: Agatha was not planning to capture anyone, much less haul them off to face the judgement of Zantabraxus. Three: Agatha was terribly fond of pastries, and Four: Meera really was a dessert chef. Conclusion Seven, that the two women would sit down and sample some, arrived in short order after establishing that Agatha would not introduce her own Skifandran to the equation uninvited (Conclusion Five, paired with puppy-dog eyes and a sad story from Agatha, resulting in Sub-Conclusion Five A, that Meera might some day reach out to Zeetha on her own) and that Meera had a fresh batch of orange coconut meringue mimmoths that had survived the amorous approaches of Oggie (Conclusion Six).

It was only logical that Agatha should share what had her out for her walk in the first place, and with both of them rapidly filling with hand-grated hot chocolate and meringue mimmoths that would put up a good fight against a Calming Pie in the soothing department, only logical that the dilemma of What To Do For Zar’tok na Tikree should be raised. Meera apparently had her own insights into the event. Agatha provided encouraging noises.

“It’s nothing but fighting, more fighting, fighting some more, betting on who’s going to fight who, and who’s going to win by how much. And then when the Trial of Zar’tok na Akj starts, someone _always_ manages to vomit on the sacred flame, or the sacred flame-bearer or both,” the Skifandran explained with a crinkle of her nose. “And if you survive that, then it’s nothing but listening to a bunch of sages droning on about how our ancestors did everything better. I swear by Ashtara, the only thing good about it was the food.

“Five years ago, it was announced on Zar’tok Eve it was going to be my duty to light the sacred flame at the heart of the trial grounds, and to carry it to the place of honour at the champions’ feast, and I just-- No more. I was done. I left Skifander going downriver on a raft that night, with nothing but my clothes and my measuring spoons, and when I found my way to Paris, I swear it was like finding heaven.”

“Even with stray Jägers declaring their intentions to you?” Agatha teased, dimpling over the rim her now-empty mug.

“Even with. I’m really not what Ognian thinks I am, although he is sweet. I’m no warrior. I’m trained in the ways of Skifandran combat, sure, but so is every adult daughter of Skiff. It’s really not something I've ever liked, and if you can’t at least tolerate it… well, it’s better this way. I’m happier. Although…”

Agatha supplied further encouraging noises, and attempted not to let the sudden wonderful idea she’d had leak out of her ears in anticipation.

“I do miss the cooking sometimes. The French have no appreciation for true Skifandran cooking. I have to change all the spices to suit them, and not a single one will try my akjava pie.”

“Meera,” said Agatha, folding her hands before her with a wide smile. “I think I have just the solution for you.”

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

It was four days later, and the sun was sinking somewhere behind grey cloud banks to herald the twilight of the longest night of the year. Zeetha watched from the flat’s window as the pale glow faded and the shadows lengthened, heaved a sigh, and let her head rest on her pillowed arms. She would be fine tomorrow, she had decided, as there was no use dwelling on what she didn’t have when what she did have was a full life, and friends, and one of the great cities of the world to explore. Who was to say that one of the libraries wouldn’t have something about Skifander in it? Who was to say, for that matter, that one of the mariners in the bars up by the airship docks wouldn’t have some information about pirates that could be extracted through a good punching?

She sighed again, as even the notion of a bar brawl failed to raise her spirits. No, best that she give herself one evening to mope as much as she wanted. Agatha was off in the company of the Jägers, had been since that morning, and while you couldn’t call that ‘safely’ (And Zeetha would find it boring to do so anyway) she trusted them to see her zumil back to her in mostly one piece. Things would be better tomorrow.

She’d just gotten herself into a comfortable pose for some extended brooding (Chin on hand, elbow propped and shoulder relaxed to prevent strain, legs curled comfortably, cushioned window seat in place, and mug of tea gone properly stone-cold) when the door burst open to reveal Agatha and the Jägers, all four parties beaming brightly and Agatha in… “Is that-- a zar’tok ny kirtlen? Agatha, where did you--”

“Und dot’s not all!” chimed in Maxim from the middle of the group, somewhat alarmingly attired in a similar array of layered ribbons and strategic sashes although his (and the other Jägers’) were fitted for a rather more male form than usually wore them. “Ve got ze light,” (“Right hyah!” chimed in a grinning Dimo, brandishing one of the Parisienne self-lighting gas lanterns that explained the dark patch further down the boulevard) “Und!,” finished Oggie, with a tone suggesting this was the most critical bit of all “Ve gots ze feast comink! So hyu had better get to the fightink part, yah?”

Zeetha rose from the window seat, brooding forgotten in the face of a feral grin and a leap for her swords.

Hours passed. The ongoing question of Jägercorps versus Skifandran training was not settled, but the comparative arguments for each side were made with great enthusiasm and only a few bruised kidneys. Agatha, whose best skills inarguably lay elsewhere despite Zeetha’s efforts, soon ended up in the much less lacerating position of referee. Eventually, combat was called for reasons of delicious smells drifting up from the staircase landing, and Agatha and Oggie exchanged a look of mild conspiracy. Meera herself was no-where in sight, as she’d warned, but the large wicker hamper made it clear she’d proved as good as her word in terms of the food.

The akjava pie left Zeetha moved to tears, although she swore it was simply having the warmth of her family with her: much less embarrassing and with the added benefit of being true.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Agatha’s dreams were full of gentle rolling hills and endless groaning tables. She floated above them like a dirigible idling in still air, and laughed as gravity itself rested and the dishes and plates rose to float free among the clouds with her. She bounced among the ballet of buttered beans and broiled beef, nibbling here and there, until the gentle collisions with her next course began to become more violent. She was shaken to and fro, stomach lurching painfully, until--

Consciousness. Pain. Distension. Groaning. “Oh, _why_ did I eat _so much_ \--”

“Come, _zumil_!!” bellowed the entirely too energetic voice of Zeetha, source of the hand shaking her shoulder and the unforgiving weight of the quarterstaff dropped onto her chest. “The Trial of Zar’tok na Akj awaits!”

Eyes still gummed shut, hands clutching tight to her nightclothes, one more spark groaned in her discovery of a new form of the lesson learned by countless generations past:

“I've created a monster…”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dodgy internet made me feel like I was completing my own set of Solstice Trials to finish this, but for a request that was hoping for Agatha. Zeetha and friendship, I hope this fits the bill! I threw in a Skifandran OC, which I know isn't everyone's cuppa, but I hope a random helping of Jaegers will offset that if it's not yours! This is my first time writing GG fanfic, although I've been a longtime reader, and it was a lot of fun. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.


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